The Biggest Mystery
by EnamoredWithSherlolly
Summary: Prompt from Tumblr: Sherlock finds out that Molly has a tattoo, and he is determined to discover what, and where, it is.


"Ankle?" Sherlock shouted through the door.

"No." Molly shouted, not even looking up from her book. Sherlock had dropped by her house about three times every night, stayed for approximately 3 seconds, then left each time.

If she was honest, she might admit she liked the attention and didn't confiscate his illegal copy of her house key (she had no idea when he made it) also so she wouldn't have to get up every time. However, once he came when she was in the shower and simply _barged in. _That had been a horrendous experience and she hadn't wanted a repeat. So now, Sherlock Holmes was reduced to standing outside the door.

A moment of silence, then footsteps retreating down the stairs.

She expelled the breath she had been holding.

She had told Mary she had gotten a tattoo several years ago on a whim during one of their girls' night outs, and Mary had promised she would tell no one but John. Of course, if Molly had known John's tendency to let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, she wouldn't have uttered a word to Mary. And now Sherlock Holmes was on her case.

* * *

><p>"Hipbone, right one." The first words out of his mouth the next day when he popped up at the morgue.<p>

"Nope." The scalpel in her hand remained steady.

"Left one then."

"Absolutely not." She set the scalpel aside and began to peer into the man's abdomen. Strange.

The doors swung open and shut behind her.

* * *

><p>"Rib-cage, left side."<p>

As Molly stood in front of her apartment door, eyes half shut from sleep, still dressed in her sleeping gown and fluffy bunny slippers, she began to seriously contemplate killing the man standing in front of her. It was _bloody three in the morning_.

"No!" She slammed the door in his face, shuffled back to her bed, and dragged the covers over her head, ignoring the pounding at the door.

There was a sweet half a minute a silence.

"Right side then." A deep baritone sounded right next to her ear.

Molly rolled onto her side, reaching toward the other side of the bed to flip on the lamp, muttering curses under her breath the entire time.

"_Sherlock bloody Holmes, get the fuck out of my apartment before I call the police_."

He stared at her, his mouth turned down into a slight frown, his eyebrows creased.

She wiped her face and propped herself up on one arm, facing the huge puppy who looked like he'd been dumped out onto the street.

"Look, I'm sorr-"

"I knew it was next to your left collarbone about four days ago. I was simply performing a social experiment, seeing how long it takes before someone cracks under-"

Seeing Molly's murderous glare and her clenched fists, he intelligently decided not to continue.

"I am rather curious what the tattoo is of, though. John hadn't seen fit to indulge that piece of information (or rather, Molly thought, he hadn't known because she hadn't told Mary)." His eyebrows raised expectantly.

Molly finally sat all the way up, scooting over to the edge of her bed. It was painfully clear he wasn't leaving until he got an answer, which meant she wasn't getting any sleep until she gave one.

Still, she decided to drag it on a bit longer. She patted the bed next to her, and Sherlock immediately sat down. She then swung her legs up, leaning against the headboard, and crossed her legs. Sherlock scooted closer expectantly.

"Guess," she said simply.

He frowned.

"A cat."

She rolled her eyes. Honestly, she expected better of the great consulting detective.

He was silent for another moment.

"Some word or phrase then. Those seem to be popular of late."

She shook her head, her eyes becoming heavier.

She almost fell asleep when she felt a tug at her night gown.

Eyes immediately snapping open, she grasped Sherlock's hand tightly in her own.

"That's cheating, you wanker!"

(Molly Hooper, it seemed, had a surprisingly dirty mouth when she put her mind to it.)

She was a tad too late though.

"A tiny plum blossom branch. Plum blossoms, why?"

"Because they're pretty." She gave the answer she gave to everyone when they asked.

He looked at her, his eyes shifting from green to blue under the lamp's dim glow. Her eyes shifted to the door for a split second.

"Why'd you get it?"

She shrugged her shoulders. His hand suddenly turned scalding in her own, and she dropped it.

"When then?" he continued, relentless.

"About five years ago," she whispered, her voice suddenly gone.

She wanted him to deduce her. But she didn't. No, she didn't.

He was still for a moment, then nodded stiffly. He got up without a word and left her apartment. Standing underneath the lamp post at the end of the street, he flipped his coat collar up against the chilly night air. Puffs of breath reminiscent of his past addiction drifted up into the sky, fading against the black.

Truth be told, he was as willfully ignorant as she. Wanting to play a game with her, wanting her to notice him like a young boy who pulls on the pigtails of the girl he likes. Wanting to know more about her. And now he knew too much.

Back in her bed, Molly slowly raised a hand to touch the dip where her collarbone met her shoulder, caressing the spot where his fingertips had grazed just moments before. It was burning now, scalding to the touch.

Stupid Molly Hooper had experienced the love at first sight her mother warned her about five years ago. Dumb Molly Hooper had professed her love and gotten rejected harshly and had run away in tears. Optimistic Molly Hooper had gotten the tattoo, still reluctant to give up.

Endurance. It represented endurance. But it had been robbed of its meaning when her ring finger was taken by another.

She knew. He knew.

But it also meant hope.

And hope, she supposed, was something that could never be robbed from her. Her mother's bedtime stories had ingrained in her an undying trust in fairy-tales, one that eventually formed the basis of nearly all her beliefs.

Pulling the blankets up, she closed her eyes and pulled the ring off her finger, stuffing it into the drawer next to her bed. She couldn't block out the black curls, long, elegant fingers, the curve of the lips burned so deeply into her retinas.

Molly Hooper could always hope the man she had fallen in love with so long ago could finally love her back.


End file.
